


Things That Grow

by Palebluedot



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Fluff, Gardening, I live here now. you are invited, M/M, Post-Series, Reading Aloud, my teeth all rotted but my crops are thriving, the fandom hivemind love shack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 03:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10733652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: Weeding, pruning, watering – though the tasks seem never-ending, it's pleasant, welcome labor, working at a gentle pace, James's voice as constant as the sun on his back, the sweetness of the roses he tends.~+~+~+~+~Something of a companion piece to "Too Fondly to be Fearful," but can easily be read separately.





	Things That Grow

**Author's Note:**

> Yesterday, I woke up and decided "Today, I make Thomas Hamilton happy." This is the result.

A garden, James had remarked, seemed an odd wish for a man so recently given the promise of never having to clean earth from under his fingernails again. Thomas had not quite known what to say. It was an odd sensation, alarming, even, having a need he couldn't explain, not even to James. But ten years is a long time for a clock to rust unwound – he had not yet readjusted to closeness, to freedom, a future beyond doing only what he was told, or could manage without detection. He just knew he dearly wanted to see roses blooming under their front windows, and he wanted to plant them there himself. James, bless him, made it a little easier by not pressing the matter, and easier still by returning home from his next trip into town with seeds in hand.

Living tucked away from civilization poses its share of challenges. The simplest of errands are bound to separate them for most of the day at least – but no one was around to see Thomas kiss James right there in the doorway, the last full rays of sun warm on his hands where they framed his cheeks.

Now, kneeling among roses that have grown tall and lush and fragrant through the years, he thinks he understands the compulsion that scattered the ground with soft red petals. After the sea swelled and delivered salvation at his feet, though his life transformed undeniably for the better, it still _changed_. All he'd known for certain for so long was that he must work the land, and that he was utterly alone in the world. Then a ghost that wasn't a ghost and smelled of salt water and gunpowder held him tight and called him his own, and one of his unshakable tenets crumbled gratefully to dust. The other did not relinquish its grip so easily, and in the face of an overwhelming turn in his fortunes, the lightning-strike restarting of his atrophied heart, perhaps this was a comfort. For too long, the dark earth under his palms felt far more solid than desperate, joyful kisses that recalled countless dreams he'd woken from.

Whatever frightened soil the wish was rooted in, he is glad to see it sprout and bloom. No matter how cruelly they were taught, his hands know how to coax life from barren ground. That should not be for nothing. As the small dark leaves and full blossoms that quiver in the breeze tell it, it hasn't been.

As for James, well, Thomas should never have worried that he would not understand. He was, after all, the one who woke up one morning and suggested that they ought to build a porch, and couldn't say from where the thought came. Nevertheless, they tried their hands at it, made it stand. Building their home was as much a matter of giving their labor to their whims as anything else, in the beginning. He glances up from his work, and yes, James is still there, leaning against the porch step just a few feet away, lost in a book, and Thomas thinks they've really done rather a fine job of it all. After ten years of yearning silence, there was no guarantee that seeds so long dormant would survive such a transplant. And now, they have a home with a garden, a shady place to sit that overlooks it, and a history they shaped themselves – not bad for the much-enduring pair they make.

Of course, they have more than their house to their names, Thomas thinks, watching James's brow quirk as he reads. “Would you read aloud, love?” he asks, wiping his brow with the back of an earth-smudged hand, and smiles when James meets his eye.

“My lord's wish is my command,” James replies lightly, a hint of a smirk creeping into his voice that reminds Thomas of the purr words like those took on back when they first so thoroughly obliterated the need for such formalities. _My lord_ , indeed. How very young they were at the start. How much has changed, how little has withered. When James turns back to the book, his eyes are still soft. Thomas doesn't expect to fully understand the plot of the novel by jumping in at the middle like this, and he doesn't much care, is quite content just to listen – but then there's the rustling of paper beneath James's thumb, and he sees James intends to begin anew for him. Warm from more than just the summer air, he reaches for his watering can and waits. “I was born in the year 1632,” James begins in a clear voice, “in the city of York...”

Weeding, pruning, watering – though the tasks seem never-ending, it's pleasant, welcome labor, working at a gentle pace, James's voice as constant as the sun on his back, the sweetness of the roses he tends. Packing the soil around the base of a plant in danger of uprooting, Thomas listens to the tale of a man thrown to unforgiving waves, dashed against the shores of an island of despair like surf against a jagged promontory, where he struggles to survive, to remember his roots, to return home. Around him, under his hands, their garden thrives, and he finds time to be grateful. James reads on, shifting position when Thomas does, and more than once comes to a line that makes Thomas glance up in surprise, delight, or horror, only to find James watching him, as though waiting for him to react just so.

There is no one alive, Thomas realizes, who knows him better.

At last, Thomas sits back, satisfied his work is through, and turns his eye to James. Only through admiring the way the sun glints golden through his eyes, that silver streak in his hair, does Thomas notice how deeply amber its light has grown, how low in the sky it hangs. James catches him looking, eyes his idleness quizzically. “You're finished, then?”

“I believe so,” Thomas replies, and moves to sit beside him, careful not to agitate his back, which began quietly twinging some chapters ago – the day really has stretched long. “I hadn't realized it had become so late. Weren't there matters you wanted to attend to today?”

“There were,” James nods, making room for Thomas under his arm. When he's settled, James runs his thumb over Thomas's shoulder and pulls him nearer, though he is overheated and marked with dirt from his labors. “I believe I quite wanted to read to you.”

Once the full weight of those words reaches him, everything in Thomas sings. Eyes sly and fond, that satisfaction at the corner of his mouth – Thomas can hardly bear to look away. He manages for just long enough to lean towards him, palm his cheek and plant a kiss to his lips, let it bloom. He lingers there tender with James's arm still around him, firmer now. When at last he pulls away, he does not go far. “You are so dear to me,” he sighs in the space between them, his temple pressed to James's, and knows he has not said enough.

A breath of laughter tickles his cheek. “I should hope so,” James murmurs, pressing his lips to Thomas's forehead. His whiskers scratch there lightly, and the rough of his hand guides Thomas back to his side. He reaches for the book, forgotten and folded in his lap. “Let's see how it ends, shall we?” Thomas hums in agreement, content to settle next to him – he's sown enough for one day, but he shall never tire of this. James reads on, and Thomas knows long before the castaway is saved by a captain and his mutineers in equal measure that all will be well. The colors thrown by the sun only multiply, and all around them, the roses bloom.

**Author's Note:**

> James reads from _Robinson Crusoe_ by Daniel Defoe. Disclaimer: I have not read it, unless we're counting a kiddie adaptation I read in 4th grade, and from what I can gather from online summaries, this thing is like eight different flavors of racist. So, for a variety of reasons, this is not an endorsement, but in terms of period-appropriateness and applicability, in my view, it was the clear choice. (And how did they obtain a copy of this new book while living in semi-seclusion? The power of love. Next question.)
> 
> Title inspired by [this precious, precious moment](https://i.imgur.com/VGfmchI.jpg) in The Fellowship of the Ring.
> 
> Comments are love!


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